


We Know Where We Belong.

by TheItsyBitsyWriter



Series: We Started, Just Two Hearts In One Home [2]
Category: Bucky Barnes - Fandom, Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Steve Rogers - Fandom, Stucky - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Brooklyn boys in love, Bucky Barnes - Freeform, Bucky Feels, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Oblivious, Pining, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum, Pre-War, Schmoop, Steve Feels, Stucky - Freeform, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, because why not?, lots of feels, so much pining, steve rogers - Freeform, they're both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-23 16:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheItsyBitsyWriter/pseuds/TheItsyBitsyWriter
Summary: It's 1937, and Steve and Bucky are moving in together, in the apartment that Sarah Rogers left to Steve after her demise the year before. And as usual, there's about a million and one obstacles in their way. But Bucky Barnes is in love, and God damn it, he's an idiot in love, and he'll face just about anything the world throws at his face, so long as he gets to have Steve by his side.And Steve Rogers is also in love with, and being in love makes him poetic and super artistic, and who else is a better muse than the object of his affection?Sketches and domestic bliss ensues.





	We Know Where We Belong.

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a prequel to "We're Both Stubborn, I Know" and it's basically just Bucky moving into Steve's apartment, and Steve's a lovesick dumbass, and Bucky's just the same.  
> Schmoop, and fluff, also way too much pining.

On the morning of July 26th, in 1937; Brooklyn has succumbed to what appears to be a small invasion of cardboard boxes. Or so it seems from where Steve is standing on the stairwell of his apartment building, in one of Bucky's old shirts— that’s a size too big for him, and his own pajama pants. There are several cardboard boxes that look like they're filled with stuff, lining the pavement in front of the building. There are so many stacks of them, and passersby are staring at him and the boxes in an incredulous manner. He wants to tell them they're not his boxes, but he doesn't think their looks of mild disgust are worth dignifying with a response.

"Uh, Buck?" He asks instead, a hand reaching up to scratch at his jaw; because his brown-haired, doe-eyed best friend is the only possible reason behind the massacre of boxes.

Bucky’s head pops up behind one of the boxes, and he smiles widely. “Steven! Glad you’re up, pal.” He tells him, ducking back behind the boxes briefly, before he’s standing up off the pavement and brandishing what appears to be the day’s rolled up newspaper at Steve, like it’s a sword. “How’s the fever?”

“Better now. Remind me to thank your Ma for the soup, Buck; it tasted delicious, and it was very kind of her.” Steve says, coming forward, his bare feet pattering softly on the concrete. “So, is this all your stuff?”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, nodding quickly. “Though, Becky wouldn’t let me take those blue curtains; said they matched her room far more than they did the beige theme of your living room. I mean, who even cares, they’re curtains!”

Steve laughs a little at that. “Ladies like matching menial things like that, Buck. But I think Rebecca didn’t let you take ‘em, because you insist on calling her  _Becky_  still. She’s told you so many times that she isn’t twelve anymore.”

“She’s literally just turned fourteen, Steve. She’ll always be my baby sister.” Bucky says, looking slightly exasperated. “Anyway, forget about her, why don’t you go upstairs, leave the door propped open, and eat something— you look like the wind’s ‘bout to blow you away, while I bring up these boxes.”

Steve makes a face at Bucky, “I’m fine, and I’ll help with the boxes. What’s the newspaper say?”

Bucky makes a noncommittal sound, and flips the paper in his hand. “Dooling, Tiger leader, is dead.” Bucky reads to him from the front page of the  _Brooklyn Daily Eagle_ , “Copeland stays in race despite it.” He mutters incoherently under his breath, turning the paper in his hands. After two minutes of looking, he shakes his head. “There’s nothing interesting or worthwhile in here, Stevie. Though there’s a Mayoralty ballot in here.”

“Oh, really, who even are the candidates?” Steve asks, crossing his arms across his chest and lifting his chin slightly.

“It’s the  _Brooklyn Eagle Mayoralty Ballot_ , Steve. It’s just a speculation poll, it’s not the real thing— I don’t think the real thing’s gonna be a problem for a while. Does this even matter?”

“No, not really, but I’d still like to know who is in the lead.”

“Okay, then.” Bucky replies, rolling up the newspaper and chucking it in Steve’s general direction— and Steve scrambles to catch the heavy roll. “You can find out for yourself while you get your scrawny ass up the stairs.”

Steve cradles the paper to his chest and huffs, “Alright, fine, grumpy ass.” He watches Bucky, who is stacking a big box on top of a bigger box, and pulls the door of the apartment building open. He uses his foot to prop the door open, and lets Bucky through.

Bucky struggles with the first two steps, but then he’s ascending the stairs as if those boxes weigh nothing— but Steve knows better. As Bucky disappears up the stairwell, Steve moves towards the boxes and puts the paper down on top of one of them. Then he picks up the biggest one— his mistake, really, because he barely makes it five steps in the direction of the apartment door, with the box in his arms, before he starts to feel his lungs burning with the struggle to breathe for him.

“Oh,  _Christ_ …” he wheezes under his breath, and cringes inwardly.  _What would Sister Marian say if she heard him taking the Lord’s name in vain?_

But he’s glad he doesn’t have to worry about Sister Marian anymore, he’s not in school. He’s made it to nineteen years old, despite all odds. And thinking to distract himself from the ache in his back and lungs, he finally gets inside the door and plants his right foot on the first step, leaving the rest of Bucky’s boxes on the pavement outside— it’s downtown Brooklyn, nobody ever steals anything here, and besides, Bucky doesn’t even have any of the worldly possessions that are worth stealing for a thief.

Steve has barely made it past the first seven steps when suddenly, the box is being lifted from his arms, and Bucky’s face is coming into his vision. “Honestly, Steve, I wish you wouldn’t do this.”

Steve purses his mouth, and hopes that his narrowed eyes can convey just how annoyed this makes him. “Give it back, Buck. I can take it up a few steps.”

“No you really can’t, ‘cause you look like you’re ‘bout to fall and break my phonograph— or worse, you’re gonna break a bone. I can’t take that risk.”

 _Ah!_ Steve thinks to himself,  _so that’s what made the box so damn heavy._

Regardless, he crosses his arms across his chest in a defiant manner and leans to one side— secretly supporting his weight, by leaning his right shoulder on the wall, and continues to look up at Bucky with narrowed eyes. “I mean it, Bucky, give me the box back.”

“This phonograph is from the early 1900’s, it was my Grandma’s. She gave it to Ma, who gave it to me, not so I can break it, yeah? ‘Sides, we’re gonna need music up in there now that I’ll be living here.” Bucky tells him, smiling widely, showing two rows of straight white teeth.

Steve stares at him in indignation, not caring that they’re wasting time standing in the stairwell— and that he’s barefoot and the carpet on the stairs is disturbingly sticky. Putting all his frustration, and relentlessness in his voice, he simply says, “ _Bucky_.”

And the older man sighs dramatically, “Oh, fine! There are other boxes down there, yeah? Go get one of ‘em, ‘cause I ain’t giving you this one, not even if Hell freezes over, punk.” With that, Bucky turns on his heel, and quickly jogs back up the stairs as if the box in his hands weighs next to nothing.

Steve groans loudly, turning around and muttering, “For Christ’s sake, Buck!” as he makes his way back out towards the five other boxes. He pushes at each one with his toes, and then bends to pick up the least heavy one— he supposes this one has Bucky’s pillows and bed sheets, and then retreats back towards the apartment with it firmly between his hands. He meets Bucky halfway up the stairwell, and Bucky give him another smile— the kind that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, as he passes by Steve, on his way back down.

Ten minutes later, Bucky’s got all his boxes scattered messily around the small living room of Steve’s— Steve  _and Bucky’s_  even smaller apartment. Bucky did most of the work, if Steve’s being honest— he managed to carry only two boxes up the stairs; the one with the linens, and the one with Bucky’s clothes— Bucky carried all the rest. Now they’re winding down, and Bucky’s standing in the kitchen, sipping from a can of Coca Cola, and Steve’s sat at the small table beside the fire escape.

“Get a load of this, Buck,” Steve begins, reading from the damn newspaper he’s still holding, “ _Magistrate Brill Cool to Heat; Orders Cops to Keep on Coats. The Coney Island courtroom was permeated with a murkiness today that might have been London fog boiled in oil. But Magistrate Jeanette Brill, assuming the mien of a Christian Scientist, ruled it was not hot enough for police and court attendants to remove their coats_.” Bucky laughs loudly at this from the kitchen, and Steve’s lips widen in a smile. He continues, a little louder, “ _A coatless court interpreter strolled to the rear of the chamber. Summoning a court attendant, Magistrate Brill commanded: “Order that man to put on his coat.” Then turning to several policemen awaiting their turn to submit complaints, she continued: “You are a fine, gallant bunch of men in uniform, but you certainly look messy without your coats. It’s too bad you are allowed to walk about coatless._ ”

Bucky laughs even louder at that and Steve can’t help but join in. They spend a good two minutes laughing about it, before Steve gives the paper a little noncommittal flick and says, “Wait, there’s more, she’s not done yet, apparently,” his eyes flick up from the page and momentarily settle on Bucky, whose got his arms crossed at his chest and is watching him with intent. “ _“Forget about the weather. Think it’s not warm. It won’t do any harm to practice a little Christian Science.” Not entirely unmindful of the heat, the Magistrate dismissed charges of vagrancy against twenty-four men who were seized sleeping on the beach.”_ ”

By this point, Bucky’s got an arm braced on the counter, stopping himself from falling over while laughing. “Oh,  _Lord_.” He wheezes out between bouts of laughter after a good minute, “I can’t imagine sleeping on the beach, then being let off because the Magistrate is too preoccupied by coatless policemen.” Bucky’s face is flushed, and his eyes are crinkled deeply at their corners.

And Steve's just simply watching him laughing— a goofy grin splitting his face, and Steve thinks he’s doomed. Because this man in front of him, he means everything to Steve. There is not a single thing in this world that Steve wouldn’t happily do for Bucky— hell, Bucky could ask him to fall off the Brooklyn Bridge and Steve would do it with his eyes closed, and a smile on his face. He’s so stupidly in love with Bucky, and it’s becoming a real problem. Not only is he doomed in this lifetime—and all others, because let’s face it, there’s not a single chance that there will ever be a Steve Rogers who wouldn’t be in love with Bucky Barnes—because he can never love another the way he loves Bucky, and that basically ruins him for any other person— assuming, of course, that another person would actually  _want_  to be with “Sickly Steve” as Jordan Bates from school used to call him. He’s also condemned his soul to Hell forever, because since when does a man fall shamelessly—and quite helplessly—in love with another man?  _"God made Eve for Adam; a woman for a man. That's how it should be!"_ Sister Agatha from school used to say during their Religious studies class, and Bucky always used to make faces behind her back— and then promptly flirt with either Hannah Turner, or Abbey Lowe. Sarah Rogers—God rest her soul—always told Steve that love knew no boundaries, that love was blind— but she also told him that love is unable to protect from the harshness and cruelty of the world. Steve suspects she always knew to some extent— that Steve liked Bucky, but she never said it to him directly. Only ever showed him she loved and supported him regardless. Just like she supported that unwed mother, when she moved into the apartment above theirs.

And Steve is just so thankful for that— it makes loving Bucky a little easier on his conscience: knowing he's not disappointing or hurting his Ma. And it's a wonder, really, that his Ma knew about him— because he himself doesn’t know just when he started loving Bucky in a different way— he’d always loved Bucky to some extent; after all, Bucky was his  _only_  friend, the only person in the world—of course, besides Sarah—who truly loved Steve, regardless of that week’s ailment. Bucky was always there for Steve, through sickness and the rare instances of health, so it was natural that Steve loved Bucky. But when had he  _fallen in love_  with Bucky? Steve didn’t know the answer to that— and honestly, he was okay with it. Bucky was the center of his world— and when has a circle ever had a starting point? It was as if one day, Steve had woken up and the day had gone on as usual, and by the end of it, he had realized that he was stupidly in love with Bucky— and then everything had gone on just like before.

“Steve? You listenin' to me?” Bucky’s gentle but loud voice pulls him out of his reverie, and he looks up with a questioning expression.

“Hm?”

“Where's your head at? I said, why don’t you draw me?”

“…what?”

“Well, today’s a special day, isn’t it? I've just moved in! Now, we don’t have one of those fancy cameras like Becky’s friend does, but we do need to capture this moment forever— so what better way to do it, than have you draw me?"

"Buck," Steve sighs, folding the newspaper down the middle—he knows he's not going back to reading this, anytime soon—and putting it aside, "you know why I don't draw you. You can't sit still for a minute."

"No, I  _can_  sit still for a minute, even longer— and I will, I promise. Just draw me, please."

"Buck—" Steve begins in a condescending tone.

"No, wait—" Bucky holds up a hand, and turns away from the stove— apparently, the oatmeal's done, "—how about this? You draw me this afternoon, and I'll give you nice foot massages for a week."

Steve observes him with narrowed eyes— narrowed because he can't really see Bucky very clearly from afar, his eyesight's nearly as bad as the kind, old Mrs. Leroy's, who lives on the floor above, next to Miriam Lowell: the unwed mother, from apartment 8C— and that reminds Steve, he should pay her a visit soon, see if she needs anything— most people aren't very kind to poor Miriam, and her daughter Rosie, and Sarah always made it pointedly clear that she and Steve were going to be nice to Miriam, regardless of what anyone said or did.

Then Steve shrugs, "I know you'll give me foot massages even if I refuse to draw you." Bucky crosses his arms over his chest, and purses his mouth. Then he gives Steve a look that says he's annoyed, and isn't joking around. So Steve sighs and nods, "Alright, fine, I'll draw your stupid mug. But you'll have to visit Miriam upstairs with me, and the foot massages still stand."

At this, Bucky grins widely and nods, "Sure, yeah, I'll do it! I love little Rosie, and Miriam always has the best kind of tea up there— where does she get it from, England? Have you ever asked?"

"No, because I don't drink tea. You can ask her yourself when we go."

Bucky nods, turning back to the stove, and emptying the contents of the little pot into the bowls he previously laid out. "Okay, I will. And you should try the tea, Steve, it's always good, and makes me feel better. It'll help you too."

"Buck, you forgetting what happened the last time I had tea?"

"Yeah, no I remember; you almost coughed up a lung, but that's your fault for laughing while drinking."

"It's  _your_ fault for making me laugh, you jerk!"

Bucky shrugs, his mouth tilted in a sly grin, as he brings the bowls of oatmeal to where Steve is sat. "Yeah, well I was just being my usually charismatic self, your fault you find everything I say so damn funny." Steve flushes in embarrassment at this, but Bucky doesn't notice— he's too busy stirring his sticky, sad oatmeal around. "'Sides, I know you'll try the tea if I offer it to you."

"We'll see about that, you smug asshole."

"Steve, that's at least three  _Hail Mary_ 's." Bucky corrects him in a devilish tone, looking up at him with his head slightly ducked— and that moment is perfect, because the late-morning sunlight coming in through the large window catches at his face, makes his steel gray eyes look vibrant and bright, and just so beautiful. The light casts shadows beneath his high cheekbones, and the cleft in his chin. And Steve thinks he might have fallen a little more in love, because Bucky is  _just so damn beautiful,_ inside and out. And Steve knows he's staring, but he doesn't care at this moment. He simply doesn't care that Bucky can see he's staring— wide-eyed and slack-jawed, because he's always stared at Bucky like this. "Steve? Are you alright?"

It takes Steve a minute to gather his wits, then another to tighten his jaw, and then thirty more seconds for his brain to process the situation and form a reply. "...Yes."  _God, he's such an idiot,_ he thinks to himself, and then clears his throat— his mouth is dry all of a sudden, "I mean, yes, I'm fine. I was just... you look perfect." Oh okay, so they've established that his brain has severe problems now, because  _he did not just say that out loud._ Bucky's spoon abruptly halts in mid-air and he glances back up at Steve, his eyes wide and throat flushed a beautiful pink, and Steve wonders if he could somehow will the Earth to open up and swallow him whole. 

And where Steve's frozen in his spot, staring at Bucky with wide-eyes, and a "deer caught in the headlights" look, Bucky's heart is threatening to break free out of his chest and perform an excellent Jitterbug routine on the table between him and Steve. Because honestly, he's either gone deaf or his fantasies have quickly become very threateningly real. Did Steve just say he looks perfect? Because if he did, then Bucky is going to absolutely die of sheer joy, and it's all going to be Steve's fault, but he's going to die a very happy man. Steve's still staring at Bucky, and Bucky's staring back at him— and Bucky vaguely recalls their oatmeal, and that it's going cold, but neither man seems to care much for it. They're still staring at each other.

Then Bucky shakes himself free of his trance, and lets a wide grin settle on to his face, "Well, thank you. And you're perfect, as well, Stevie."

At this, Steve's skin flushes a crimson shade and he ducks his head, mutters a 'thanks', and picks his spoon up. Then, as if changing his mind, he puts it back down and looks back up at Bucky, whose still watching him with a completely loved-up expression. "What I actually meant was, you look perfect... in this light. It's perfect for the drawing you want."

Bucky's smile doesn't fade at this, only widens and brightens. "Alright, then. How about we finish the oatmeal, then I'll go fetch your sketchbooks and your charcoal, and you can draw me?"

Steve nods, "Okay. Let's do it."

So, about seven short minutes later, when Steve wolfs down his oatmeal quicker than he should have, Bucky doesn't say a word; when Bucky trips over his own two feet heading towards Steve's—  _their_ room, Steve doesn't say a word; when Steve gathers the dishes and unceremoniously dumps them in the kitchen sink, Bucky doesn't complain; when Bucky comes and rearranges the table so he can sit at a better angle, Steve says nothing; when Steve reaches forward to set his hair differently, and tugs open the second-to-the-top button on his shirt, Bucky only leans in; when Bucky settles in quietly and watches Steve doing what he's so awfully passionate about, and assumes the expression of a lovesick idiot, Steven only bites his lip and ducks his head further down; when finally, after a half hour, Steve finishes the sketch, and every single detail— down to the twinkle in Bucky's eyes, and the wetness of his plump lips, is perfect, Bucky grins his appreciation and approval. And when Steve folds the sketch down the middle and tucks it underneath the pile of his worn-out shirts in the dresser, Bucky doesn't say a word.

So what if Steve takes the sketch out during the nights Bucky's at the bar, or working a late shift at the docks, and kisses the perfectly-drawn bow of Bucky's lips? So what if Steve softly caresses the cheek of the drawing, and whispers his confessions? So what if Bucky pulls Steve a little closer to himself on nights he couldn't make it home earlier? So what if Bucky observes the way Steve's chest rises and falls with even breaths, and the way his eyelashes flutter demurely in his sleep? So what if Steve loves Bucky; completely, selfishly, and stupidly? And so what if Bucky loves him back just the same, but a little more each day?

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was considerably cuter than the last one, oops.  
> There's one last chapter in this series coming later today... maybe tomorrow, who knows? I'm a mess :)  
> Here is a link to the newspaper I was referencing: https://www.newspapers.com/image/52704767/?terms=  
> (turns out that looking up old newspapers from the past is very fun, now I know why Sam Winchester loves research so much!)


End file.
